


Crush

by Kemmasandi



Series: In Which Old Friends Get Up To Dodgy Tricks [9]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Light Bondage, Other, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tactile Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 05:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18543637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: Sometimes old dogs already know all of the tricks.





	Crush

**Author's Note:**

> More old writing - I thought I'd lost half of this but happily I found the whole thing mouldering away in the depths of my TF WIPs folder! (I have like a hundred WIP documents between google docs and my laptop - things get lost so easily OTL.) This has been completely unedited since about 2013; I was going to try and give it a touch-up but my ADHD meds are wearing off, alas, and I still would like to post another couple of old fics today.

...

CRUSH

...

Ratchet met Optimus at the entrance to the medbay, a length of industrial-grade steel chain looped in his servos and a wicked flutter in his EM field. His expression was dour as ever, but behind it, his optics were bright and calculating.

Optimus stopped a pace or two in front of the medic, his field flaring a silent question.

Ratchet gave him a detailed once-over, his optics narrowed, his expression calculating. He transferred the chain to one servo and rested it on his hip, one pede scraping backwards a fraction as he leant back to return Optimus’ curious gaze. They locked optics for three long seconds, fields reaching out, shivering with electric feedback on contact.

Optimus broke away, his optics shifting down and to the side, giving the length of chain in Ratchet’s hand a pointed look. Ratchet replied with a narrowing of his optics, resting his weight on that side so that his hip shifted in a sassy jut. His field coloured in rich amusement, downright mischievous.

“I see,” Optimus murmured, lifting his own servos to his hips.

Optical ridges raised, and the amorous field mingling with his flared, sinking possessive wavelengths down to his subdural layer. Ratchet’s expression split into a sudden grin. He shifted again, the movement echoed in his field as it swept lazily through the outer layers of Optimus’, a faint magnetic caress over his neural net. 

It was second nature to check the base for any sign of impressionable little lifeforms, but his automatic scans pinged back showing himself and Ratchet as the only inhabitants, Cybertronian or human. The children were off on a shared camp for the weekend, and the larger children, as the medic had taken to calling them in private, had gone with their charges, hoping to catch some rare time off.

Evidently, Ratchet was planning to take advantage of this. Optimus couldn’t say he disapproved.

Delicate flickers of Ratchet’s EM field brushed over Optimus’ lips and curved down around his neck, sinking into cables and making his circuits hum. He caught Ratchet’s gaze and held it, stepping closer and wrapping his field around the medic’s frame from helm to pede. Fierce desire flared from Ratchet, strong enough that it drew an automatic, answering throb from Optimus’ spark.

Ratchet reached out for him, flattening his palms against Optimus’ waist and tugging him closer still. His optics narrowed, expression drawing tight in a frown. It was a familiar expression, and Optimus knew without words what was needed of him.

He dropped the protocols keeping tight control over his field and immediately it burst into vivid life, alizarin heat dancing in the wavelengths. Ratchet’s grip clamped tight around his frame, the medic’s own field shivering with recognition. Optimus leaned forward into the touch, bending down to match Ratchet’s height. He was promptly pulled into a kiss, rough and on the edge of bruising. 

:: _I have a few ideas to fill in time_ :: Ratchet sent as his glossa licked smoothly along Optimus’ bottom lip, a cue which Optimus knew well. He opened his mouth, the tips of their glossae meeting in a wet and thrilling conjunction. Kissing – kissing  _Ratchet!_ – never got old.  :: _I wonder if you might like to try some old tricks._ ::

That sounded promising. Ratchet, as a medic, knew many things, many of which could be put to highly unprofessional yet extremely satisfying use.

:: _Do you truly believe my answer will be no?_ :: he sent back, his field pushing at Ratchet, playful as he never had the privacy to allow himself to be. 

Ratchet’s engine climbed into a higher gear.  :: _It never hurts to ask_ :: the medic sent back. 

Tips of narrow digits hooked under Optimus lateral plating, slipping through the wide gaps which gave him mobility in battle, teasing along hydraulic cables and neural lines. Optimus stiffened, groaning as Ratchet took hold of a bunch of fibres and  _tweaked_ them. Lightning shot up his sides, earthing in his spark.  :: _You know me all too well_ :: he commented, slipping his own hands under the plating on his medic’s shoulders and reciprocating with wicked intent.  :: _How would you have me?_ ::

Ratchet’s optics narrowed in a calculated smile, somehow sultry. He took a step forward, pushing Optimus back. Proximity pinged –- the medical examination berth was right behind him.

::  _Turn around_ :: Ratchet sent, glyphs marked with modifiers for absolute command.

Optimus obeyed, field and frame giving a reactive shiver. He braced his palms on the surface of the berth and leant forward. Ratchet’s servos rubbed up and down his sides, stroking transformation seams and digging into the gaps between plates to fondle wires and sensor nodes. They wandered, sweeping over his abdominal plating and down the curve of his hip fairings, digits slipping into the joints and down, further. Ratchet’s frame pressed up against his back, systems humming with pleasure.

Optimus vented heavily, servos clenching against the med-berth as the quick flick of a glossa swept around the mounting of his smokestacks. He shifted his legs further apart as Ratchet’s servos delved between them, tracing the edge of the main armor plate, deliberately lingering close to his primary array.

Heat pooled, low in his frame. His valve systems came online in a rush.

As if he’d known, somehow, Ratchet pulled back, his hands gripped Optimus’ thighs from the outside, dropping to his knees. He reached up, tugging at Optimus’ hips.  :: _Down, Optimus. Bend at the knees, lay forward over the berth._ ::

Field pulsing acknowledgement, Optimus did so. Ratchet’s hands returned to his thighs immediately, but lower down, near the knee joints. And –- finally –- the chain came into play, looping around his legs, binding him to the frame of the med-berth. Ratchet pushed his legs open further, tugging the chain tight. Optimus rested his weight on the berth entirely, thoracic and abdominal plating flat against the hard metal, and tried to move his legs. There was a little give in the chains, but not nearly enough.

_Primus,_ he thought, lifting his optics to the bench on the other side of the berth and giving Ratchet’s scattered tools a heated look. His valve pulsed; he was wet already, his circuits charged and ready. Ratchet vented a puff of warm air over his array panel, and he had to exert all his willpower to stop it sliding open there and then.

But Ratchet was rising to his pedes, servos sliding up to Optimus’ hips once more. His digits traced transformation seams, pressing heavily in places and almost pulling back entirely in others. His hips ground up against Optimus’ array, but it was an incidental touch, the intent behind it mostly non-sexual.  _Mostly_ , Optimus stressed with an ardent pulse of his field as a very deliberate roll of Ratchet’s hips triggered his external sensors.

He let himself relax under Ratchet’s servos, enjoying the simple closeness. Ratchet concentrated on his central lumbar plating, the cables which tied the armor plates to Optimus’ frame loosening enough for the medic’s fingers to slip beneath them and into the underlying wiring. Sensor clusters fired under his touch, old aches and stress melting away.

Then his digits came up against something buried deep amongst the cabling just above his hip joint, and a jolt of lightning ripped straight through Optimus’ valve systems. Optimus gasped raggedly, his frame moving on instinct, grinding back and up against Ratchet’s hands and pelvic array.

“What did you just do?” he asked aloud, his vocaliser cracking, systems dragged to high arousal too fast to adjust. His valve clamped down on nothing, the sensors scrambling. As the pure electricity faded, the ghost of a presence touched against his tactile sensors, the ridges of a spike where there was none sliding into him. He shuddered, vents wide open and gasping.

Ratchet chuckled, digging his thumbs between the two lowest central lumbar plates and stroking both down the seam. “The sensory data track from your valve systems joins the main neural structures just underneath your plating here,” he explained, pressing the heel of his palm down over the spot. “If I stimulate the underlying systems, for example with an EM pulse, it tricks your array into reacting. Do you like it?”

Optimus made a wordless hum of approval and shifted under Ratchet’s hands, trying to press those skillful digits deeper. “Yes,” he managed, groaning as Ratchet’s fingers dipped into him again, ghosting along bunched cables, leaving frictive sparks in their wake. “I believe I do.”

“I thought so,” Ratchet grinned, leaning down to mouth the base of his smokestacks again.

Pressure, against his back, his valve, his thighs – digit tips underneath his plating, toying with his inner works. They rocked together, Ratchet setting a slow, sensual rhythm, balancing the rolling of his hips against his hands on Optimus’ back. His weight – a medic’s weight, heavy with redundant systems and tools meant to save lives – kept Optimus down as much as the chains binding his legs to the berth. He prodded the data track again – at least, Optimus assumed that was what he’d done, he lost the details under the flood of liquid electricity that made his back arch and his valve spasm, sensors tripping wildly over the illusion of a spike thrusting slowly into him.

It felt like Ratchet’s spike.

And then the charge was rushing outwards, his circuits coming alive with crawling electricity. His backstruts bowed, scraping his abdominal plating against the examination table and grinding his aft back against Ratchet; his valve clamped down, calipers rippling in an ecstatic pattern, every sensor cluster firing. Optimus groaned, fingers gouging dents into the edge of the berth as he rode the surge. His armor flared out, Ratchet’s fingers buried under his lumbar plating, prolonging his climax with wicked strokes over every sensor cluster he could find. 

It peaked in his spark, and then began to fade, release taking hold of his frame.

“All right?” Ratchet asked, aloud, once the charge began to ebb. 

Optimus took a moment to gather his processor threads. “Yes,” he managed, his vocaliser thick with static. “That was… educational.”

It had been less… focused than he was used to, less immediate, but for all that, no less intense. He could hardly even remember the last time he’d been able to overload on tactile stimulation alone – certainly prior to taking the Matrix. And yet, his valve pulsed, systems lit up in high charge, as though it had been the true focus of Ratchet’s attentions. 

He closed his optics and drew in a long, shuddering intake, relishing the sweet, effortless pleasure laying languid through his neural net. “Was that the entirety of your plan?” he asked, his field flaring softly against his CMO’s.

Ratchet shifted, and his pelvic plating scraped unintentionally across Optimus’ sensitized array paneling. “Hardly,” he scoffed. 

Servos slid up the length of Optimus’ dorsal plating, one teasing the mountings of his smokestacks as the other moved down his arm to catch the wrist and pin it to the berth. “It was a… teaser, shall we say,” the medic continued, his voice an offhanded purr. Optimus could almost hear him smirking.

In a way it reminded him of the synth-en days – before the synthetic energon had gotten the better of Ratchet’s common sense, that was, when it had merely removed some of the many fetters he placed on his daily relations with people. Ratchet layered himself with restrictions, some of which he likely wasn’t even aware of. Even when he was alone with Optimus, whether they shared a quiet cube on the silo roof or a charge on the berth, there they were, hiding in speech and manner and frame language.

For some reason, they melted away when Optimus was bound.

For that reason alone, it would have been worth it. But as Ratchet’s servos wandered down his frame, Optimus smiled and propped himself up on his elbows, the tension of his overload melting out of his cables. Ratchet’s EM field pushed against his, its wavelength long past the point of flirtatiousness and into raw, inviting desire. Optimus reciprocated, laying himself open to whatever the medic had in mind.

“I am glad to hear it,” he rumbled, glancing back over his shoulder.

Ratchet gave him a flat look, but there was a wicked cant to his optics, a moment’s clue before his servo rubbed over Optimus’ valve panel. “Good mech. You never know when we’ll get the chance to do this again, so I intend for you to  _enjoy_ this.”

Firm, fleeting touches, the tips of Ratchet’s digits tracing the edges on his panel, collecting the droplets of lubricant that seeped free. “What about you?” Optimus asked, resisting the urge to open up for as long as he could stand it. “Your enjoyment is as important as mine.”

He felt Ratchet’s satisfied smirk through his field as his panel snapped open and his hips pushed backwards against the medic’s digits. “Believe me,” Ratchet said, his voice low and husky, “that won’t be a problem.”

“Ah,” Optimus acknowledged, sighing through his vents. “I see. Please humor me, though, and promise me that you will pay heed to your own wants. As you say, we don’t know when we’ll have another chance like this.”

Ratchet’s fingertips traced around the edges of his external calipers, grazing over the anterior node cluster with a feather-light touch that made the end of his sentence trail off into a subvocal whine. He could feel lubricant trickling down the insides of his thighs, warm and wet, and charge nodes inside him crackled with static, cheated of release by his first overload. Everything was hypersensitive, riding on the highest settings he had.

“I promise,” Ratchet huffed. “Now will you let me get on with it?”

Optimus smiled down at the berth. “I am yours to command.”

The medic chuckled, and knelt behind him, disappearing from sight but not from proximity sensors. He traced thumbs up Optimus’ inner thighs, dipping the tips into his valve entrance and stretching the calipers just enough that he felt the mechanisms slide as they opened. Ratchet had talented fingers; he was good with his servos and Optimus appreciated it in a decidedly hedonistic way, bracing his arms against the berth and attempting to wriggle back, to force Ratchet’s digits deeper.

One servo slid around to his hip, Ratchet’s weight behind it, pinning him in place.  :: _Like I said—let me get on with it_ :: Ratchet sent, palming his entrance, metal grinding against sensor-laden metal, making Optimus’ internals shiver and his valve clench down on nothing, needy and bereft. He pressed the heel of his servo over Optimus’ anterior cluster, and  _finally_ , torturously slowly, slid two digits into him.

Calipers slid open eager and ready, clamping down and rippling in ecstasy around old friends. Optimus let himself moan, his engine revving, his own servos clutching at the berth.

Ratchet’s digits moved with purpose, stretching, scissoring, curling inside him, directly prodding a charge node which flared with white-hot electricity and arced to the nearest trigger nodes. Optimus made a noise which had he been in a less charitable mood he might have called a yelp. 

Then Ratchet’s digits withdrew, thrust back in, and were joined by the medic’s glossa.

Vents flaring, vocalizer bleeding static, Optimus forgot how to think at all. The wet pleasure burning between his legs was more important.

Data built up in his tactile centres, overloading stressed systems. His optics blanked out, visual field dissolving into white light. Redundant systems took up the overflow, spinning it out along wires tracing through his sides and abdomen, nonessential systems shutting down in preparation for what the few remaining logical thought queues he had left knew was going to be one Pit of an overload.

Ratchet kissed his valve, slow and sweet, glossa slipping out to trace the external nodes one by one. His servos caressed Optimus’ thighs, thumbs smearing runnels of Optimus’ own fluids over his armour. 

_::Optimus—overload.::_ The datapacket was covered with glyphs of command—not military, but priestly. Primus to His chosen. Priests to flock. 

Overload took him from burning alive to blacked out inside the tick of a nanoklik.

He came back to life slowly, still shuddering with dissipating charge. Ratchet’s mouth was still at his valve, glossa sweeping over external nodes as his servos worked at the chains tying Optimus’ legs down. 

Optimus groaned, propping himself up on his forearms once more, and cranked his vents open as wide as they would go, dumping heat as steam into the cool medbay air.

:: _Awake, are we?_ :: Ratchet sent, his glyphs marked with a lilt of amusement.  :: _As always, I’m envious of how quickly you bounce back._ ::

Optimus checked his chronometer. He’d not even been out half a minute.

Ratchet gave his valve one last fond lick and drew back. The chains collapsed around Optimus’ pedes, freeing him. “Although given that overload, perhaps I ought to wonder just how well such a short shutdown allows your systems to recover,” he continued aloud, one servo on the side of the berth hauling himself upright. “How do you feel?”

Optimus reset his vocaliser once, twice. He opened his mouth to reply, then had to close it while he thought of an appropriate descriptor. “Well-fragged,” he said in the end – it was succinct enough, if rawer language than he was used to.

Ratchet laughed, his own vocaliser tinged with a hint of static. His own field was pitch-dark with constrained arousal, the outer layers glimmering with white satisfaction. “Never let anyone tell you penetration is mandatory for a good overload. Fingers and glossa are perfectly acceptable substitutes.”

“Although it is quite nice in its own right,” Optimus murmured, pushing himself upright and steadying himself on wobbly pedes. He turned to face Ratchet, drawing in a quick intake – the medic’s mouth was dark with fluids, _his, Optimus’_  lubricant. Optimus’ valve gave a quick throb, a new rush of wetness flowing inside him.

_Primus below,_ he thought, wondering how on Earth he still had the charge to give.  _Stop that. Not tonight, at least._

“’Quite nice’,” Ratchet repeated back at him, dryly quirking an optical ridge. “Should I be trying harder, then?”

“If you tried any harder neither of us would get any work done,” Optimus pointed out. He clutched Ratchet’s shoulders and leaned down to kiss him, their lips sliding through the slick mess of his lubricant. “I would like to amend my earlier statement: having you inside me is wonderful and, like your fingers and your glossa, as an extension of you your spike is absolutely necessary for a good overload.”

“Likewise,” Ratchet murmured, leaning into the kiss.

They were silent for a few minutes, the only sounds in the medbay the ping of cooling metal and the deep rumble of their engines. Ratchet’s mouth lasted like lightning, thick with the tasteless slickness of lubricant, sharp with leftover charge. The medic’s servos wound around Optimus’ neck, innocent caresses as he shifted their positions putting ideas in Optimus’ processor. He moved closer, and his pelvic array brushed up against Optimus’ thigh, pouring heat.

Optimus broke the kiss and drew back, giving Ratchet his best disappointed-Prime look. “You broke your promise.”

“I—what?” Ratchet’s optics narrowed in honest confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“This.” Optimus knelt in front of him, sliding his hands down Ratchet’s frame to his hips. He tugged him close, slipped one hand between his legs and pressed them apart, nuzzling Ratchet’s inner thigh. “Open, please.”

Despite the wording, it wasn’t a request. Ratchet obeyed, his panel sliding open. His spike pressurised almost immediately, hot, hard, and crawling with charge. 

Optimus bent his helm and laid little sucking kisses all along its length, his servos tightening on Ratchet’s hips. From somewhere above him Ratchet moaned, his own hands drifting almost shyly to Optimus’ helm and holding him there.

Ratchet could talk all he wanted about focusing on Optimus’ needs, but at the end of the day what they both wanted most was to give each other pleasure. And Optimus had needed this as much as Ratchet.

He opened his mouth and took the head of Ratchet’s spike in, sweeping his glossa over sensory channels and tactile pads, closing his lips around the shaft and sucking shallowly. Ratchet’s servos clenched against his helm, his vocaliser crackling in a muted plea. Sliding his hands down Ratchet’s sides, Optimus circled the thumbs over the medic’s thighs, sinking down further over his spike. Ratchet’s hips moved in little stuttered twitches, wanting to thrust in. 

:: _Don’t restrain yourself on my behalf_ :: Optimus sent, swallowing around Ratchet’s spike to help it deeper. He flicked his glossa against the sensitive underside, curling it around the shaft. His mouth filled with static – and Ratchet moved, palms flattening against Optimus’ helm. He drew out, stopped with just the head of his spike inside, and – slowly, gently – thrust back into Optimus’ mouth.

Optimus fought the urge to smile, moving with Ratchet’s thrusts, licking, sucking, letting Ratchet set the pace, until the medic stiffened and transfluid filled his mouth. He swallowed it all down, releasing Ratchet only once the flow ceased and the spike in his mouth began to depressurise.

They sank to the floor together, arms twined around each other, legs tangling as if they had minds of their own. Optimus lay back flat on his back, pulling Ratchet to lay over his chest, hooking one leg around the back of Ratchet’s pedes.

“Didn’t quite get through everything I wanted,” Ratchet mumbled into Optimus’ shoulder, digits absently tracing the top edge of his windshield. “On the positive side, we still have tonight on our own.”

“Provided there are no emergencies, we do indeed.”

Ratchet lifted his helm and gave Optimus a Look. “Now that you’ve said that, you do realise an emergency is all but guaranteed?”

Optimus met his gaze with ease born of much practice. “I fail to see why that would be the case.”

“Trust me, I know how my life works,” Ratchet said darkly. “It’s amazing that we’ve been given the time we’ve had together.”

There was an odd catch in his voice underneath the long-suffering snark. Optimus gave him a considering look, then tugged him further up and kissed him, long and slow.

“Then,” he began, deliberately drawing out the syllable, “we shall have to make the best of what time we have.”

...


End file.
